Who's afraid?
by feralandfree
Summary: When a murder victim leaves behind a cryptic message and Molly returns to London in special circumstances, Sherlock finds he has more than one mystery to solve, and more than one fear to face...Rated T for violence and adult themes. Sherlolly. Third installment of the Coffee Cup series.
1. Plenty of time

A/N

Hello! I'm back!

This is the third part of a series, so I would recommend reading "The coffee cup and the suitcase" and "The valley of boxes" first...But it's up to you.

Thanks to all the lovely people who have written to me about the past two installments, I was touched by the support and encouragement to continue.

This is for you.

On to the story!

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* * *

"No...Please..."

"Oh my, where are your manners?"

"I'm sorry, Master. Please, Master, I won't tell anyone..."

"Oh Freddy dear, you look so cute when you beg. Ask me again."

"Please, Master..."

"On your knees."

With his legs too weak and unsteady to support him, the old man used his trembling hands to push himself off the chair and onto the floor, his white head bowed submissevly.

"I beg you, Master, plese don't make me do this."

"Freddykins, little lamb, do you want me to make a call?" The soothng, coaxing voice asked sweetly.

"God, no! Please! I..."

"Well then you know what you have to do."

The old man blinked at the little blue bottle in front of him.

"Hemlock." The cool voice answered the man's unspoken question. "It seemed fitting. You like plants, don't you?"

A slow death. A painful one.

The carpet was soft under his fingers. He had bought it many years ago, it was strange how only now he realised how comfy it was. dust particles danced in the air, caught by the last rays of the dying sun.

"Chop chop, Freddy, I don't have all day."

His body struggled to support him as he reached for the tiny vial. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Suddenly he wished he could hear rain. He always loved the sound of rain.

His eyes rose to meet the cold, calculating ones that glared back in childish delight.

"Now, bottom's up, there's a good chap...There we go, that wasn't too hard, was it? Good boy. Good little lamb. Shall we watch some telly while we wait for it to work? We still have time to play...Plenty of time."

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* * *

Molly sighed contentedly as she stepped out of the hospital doors. The sun was still out.

After months of returning home from work in darkness, it was pleasant to be welcomed by sunlight. it felt as if she had much more time left in the day!

Although mornings were still chilly, it was warm enough for her to unzip her coat and shove her hat in a pocket.

It felt like a shame to go straight home, so Molly took the longer way round, across a small park.

Children were still playing on the swings and on a rickety, unstable-looking see-saw; parents and caretakers chatted amiably on benches in the afternoon light; a man in a green hoodie was taking pictures on his phone while another was jogging with his dog; a couple was kissing behind a tree. Everyone was enjoying the first heralds of spring.

"Toby, I'm home!" Molly called as she opened the door. Her tabby languidly walked uo to her, rubbing his head against her calf.

"And they say cats don't miss us." Molly mumured affectionately, picking up the purring creature and making her way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Her phone rang. With one hand still holding Toby, she picked it up.

"Hello?"

"When are you coming home?"

"Hello, Sherlock." She smiled. "Your timing was perfect, I just got in..."

"It's sunny now so I knew you'd take your time and go through the park, causing a 10 minute delay in your return to the flat. When are you coming home?"  
Molly gently let Toby down and put the kettle on.

"What happened?"  
"Judy won't let me look at a body that died of Paraneoplastic pemphigus. Can you believe that? PNP, Molly! And she's keeping it all to herself!"

"What did you do?"

"Tell her to let me look at it!"

"What did you do, Sherlock?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all!"

"He called her fat and lazy." Molly heard John call casually.

"I did not!" Sherlock snapped. "I simply offered to take the body off her hands, because since the Christmas holidays her backside has widened by 3 inches and she hasn't been to the gym in 2 months, so it was safe to assume she would enjoy the chance not to exert herself. I was being helpful." He added indignantly.

Molly shook her head and shared a knowing glance with Toby.

"Have you apologised?"

"John told me to. It made things worse."

The pathologist poured the boiling water into her mug. "I'll call Judy and see what I can do."

"When are you coming home?"

"Sherlock, I can't just abandon the hospital, Doctor Hoffe needs me to..."

"Can't they just take Judy? She's replacing you here, the two of you could just swap."

"She doesn't want to move to Manchester!"

"Who asked her?"

"Sherlock!"

"...Yes."

"I'll be back soon..."

"I have to run, I've got eyeballs in the microwave."

"Ok. Have fun."

He hung up.

She smiled.

"I miss you, too."


	2. Books, Beds and redheads

It was a warm, gentle southern breeze which lazily played with a crumpled sheet of newspaper in the street and toyed with the sturdy little weeds that bravely made their home in the cracks of the pavement. Languidly the wind rose to push aside the hair of a happy little girl's fringe as she walked to school with her dad, then, inspired by the child's energy, it ascended to more ambitious heights, reaching the trees and rustling their leaves in noisy proclamation of its presence.

The wind's newfound confidence resulted in a little twig being unfairly jostled about, protesting grumpily with a light but insistent tap tap tap against a bedroom window to attract attention to its plight.

Molly opened her eyes. The twig had succeeded.

With a soft sigh the pathologist stretched, yawned, curled up into a ball and fell asleep again...For just five minutes...

Ten minutes later she got up.

Bathroom, kettle on, Toby's breakfast, pour tea, get dressed, eat toast...One by one the small things that made her morning routine were completed with the sleepy, absent-minded diligence of habit. It was probably going to be a typical day, like yesterday and tomorrow, since there was no unpredictable, handsome maniac to disrupt her quiet day. Molly glanced at her phone. No texts. She sighed and put it in her bag.

As she stepped outside she took a deep breath and smiled as she felt the warm breeze welcome her under the sunlight. Going to work in late spring, with the sun already up, filled her with optimism. She smiled as she walked, tying her hair up in a ponytail to combat the cheeky wind's playful mood.

"Oh! Excuse me!" She nodded apologetically as she bumped into a man with a green hoodie. The man grunted and moved on.

Oh well, it can't be a great day for everybody.

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* * *

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"CRASH!"

"Sherlock!"

"Good morning, John. You're up early."

"Dear God, Sherlock! What was that?"

"Put your gun away, John. You're not fully awake yet; you might hurt yourself."

John stood, panting, in light blue pyjama shorts, gun in one hand while the other kept the door to Sherlock's room open.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was visible only from the shoulders up as he was sitting peacefully in the middle of the crumpled, jagged remains of what once was a perfectly adequate wooden bed.

"What happened?" John asked again, a slight edge in his voice as alarm subsided.

"An experiment."

"Sherlock...What."

The consulting detective, like a worker from the mines, emerged from the gaping hole that was his bed, dusting off bits of wood from his dark trousers.

"I was trying to see the amount of force necessary to break the bed."

John rubbed his face wearily with his free hand. "Dare I ask why?"

"Due to some claims of dubious accuracy and questionable portrayals in films and literature, I felt it necessary to determine..."

"IT'S FOUR A.M, SHERLOCK!" John cried as he saw the clock.

"So it is. As I was saying, considering the anatomy and force of two healthy..."

"Is everything all right? Sherlock? John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted them as she knocked loudly. "Are you boys all right?"

"Yes, we're fine Mrs. Hudson." The doctor cried back reassuringly. "Sorry to wake you up, the bed broke..." He shot a deadly glare at his roommate.

"Oh...I see. Well," her voice brightened warmly. "carry on then, don't mind me. I was young too, once. You boys have fun!" She added cheerfully.

John opened his mouth to clarify that it wasn't what she was thinking...Then sighed. It was too early to even bother.

And he had waltzed right into that one.

"I'm going back to sleep, Sherlock. If I hear another crash like that, I WILL use my gun on you."

"Unlikely." Sherlock shrugged. "I only had one bed."

.

* * *

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Molly walked to work from her home in Ash tree road. Red brick buildings that overlooked Crupsall park responded to the greenery with their own displays of flowers and shrubs. Overall it was a pleasant stroll. Just before the Tudor-style house was a little gate she used to step into the park, crossing it to go to work. People were already enjoying the sun, some by lying on the grass, others by playing or reading while some inexplicably preferred to just look at their phone in the shade of a tree like the man in green. Maybe he too was hoping for a text from someone...

The pathologist looked at her watch and hurried off.

A few hours later, she was bent over a corpse. Some drunk old man had fallen into the river, but it could be he fell after a stroke and was already dead when...

"Molly dear? Are you free?"  
"Yes, Doctor Hoffe!" Molly smiled. As she stood straight again, her hands on her hips as she bent back, stretching her aching muscles. "I didn't know you were back! What can I do for you?"

Doctor Hoffe, Molly's boss, must have been a stunning beauty in her youth. Dr Paten, her deceased ex-husband, would say she still was (beautiful _and_ young) although she was in her early sixties. She remained a handsome lady, although the past few months of grief had left her with a slightly wearier, tired look than usual as dark circles under her eyes defied makeup and her sunken cheeks hinted at sudden weight loss she couldn't hide with another dark tailleur. Ever an elegant woman, however, she mourned with quiet grace and always smiled in public. She had been taking short trips to London, sorting George Paten's home.

Anyone who knew George Paten would understand how herculean a task that was.

"I need to talk to you." She glided quietly to a chair and with a wave of her hand invited the pathologist to join her.

"Molly, I really appreciate your help in the hospital. After George..." She blinked at that last word. For a brief moment they both remembered the way Molly's Mentor was killed in Paris during a case. "After he...died, you really became invaluable." Doctor Hoffe reached across and gave Molly's hand a gentle squeeze. Then she cleared her throat, composing herself once more.

"Thank you, Doctor Hoffe." Molly nodded in response. She had told her boss she wanted to move back to London, but she had yet to find new work. Moving back without a position was out of the question...Sherlock had talked about getting rid of Judy, her replacement, but Molly calmed him down. She would never had forgiven herself if Judy had lost her job. She would find something, eventually, London was big enough...

"I wanted to talk to you because I've finally found George's will."

"Oh!" Molly started in surprise. "That's great!"

"He'd left it in one of his old coats, of all things. He must have forgotten it there...Silly man." Dr Hoffe shook her head fondly. "I only noticed because I was emptying pockets to donate the clothes to a charity shop! It's nothing unexpected, of course: just a letter with some general indications of where he would like some personal items to go and some sentimental words...You know George. Anyway, " She leaned in with a soft smile. "He mentions you in his will." Her eyes glistened with the ace of shared loss. "He cared about you very much."

Molly nodded quietly. "Thank you. Can I...Can I see what he wrote?"

Dr Hoffe pulled out a photocopy from her purse. "I'm sorry he didn't actually have a message for you." She started apologetically. "But here it is." She read aloud. "To my dear pupil and friend, Doctor Molly Hooper, all the books in my possession. May she find therein knowledge and wisdom to guide her when I am gone."

Molly fought back the tears she could feel welling up inside of her. Dr Paten had a huge collection of books in his study, some long out of print and treasures in themselves.

"Barts still has his books in his office." Dr Hoffe spoke quietly. "They've left it unoccupied for now and tell me you can go and collect them when you return to London next week."

Shortly later Doctor Amelie Hoffe walked out of the room, leaving behind a smiling, softly weeping pathologist.

* * *

The sun was too bright.

Way too bright.

Midday rays harshly cut into the living room, reflecting on the polished parquet floor and flooding the space with light.

The only area that didn't rudely harpoon the eyes was the carpet, the one place he didn't want to look.

Lestrade wearily rubbed his forehead.

He really should not have had another drink...

"Here is the suicide note, inspector."

With a curt nod he reached for the carefully folded piece of paper with his gloved hand and began to read.

He hated suicide notes.

Seeing them.

Reading them.

Giving them to the families...

"Uncle Fred?" A woman's distressed voice brought his train of thought crashing to a halt. "What happened here? Uncle Fred!" A lady with beautiful red hair stepped into the house, ignoring the tape.

Lestrade stepped forward to stand in her way, shielding the body from her view. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, you can't come in here."

"Where is he? What happened here? Who are you? Is he all right?" She faced him squarely, with grim determination.

"Who are you?" Lestrade asked warily.

"My name is Doctor Susan Spivey. Professor Frederick Goodfellow is a friend of the family, he's like an uncle to me. We were supposed to have brunch together. Is he all right?"

In her warm, defiant eyes, the inspector saw a glimmer of fear and concern, like the dark blue of the deep sea beneath bright ripples and waves of bravado.

"I'm sorry, doctor Spivey..." Her eyes widened.

"What..." She blinked, then started looking over his shoulder. Lestrade instinctively raised his arms akimbo, but she pushed him away and ran to the couch where the old man lay at its feet, pale as chalk. She froze.

"I...I'm sorry." The doctor stammered, a trembling hand rising to a red lock that fell over her lowered eyes "I'm standing at a crime scene. I won't touch anything. I'll move back very slowly...I...I don't want to mess with any evidence. Who killed him?" She suddenly looked back up at Lestrade.

He hated this.

So, so much.

"It's all right, Doctor Spivey. Please, come here...have a seat." He shepherded her outside to sit on a bench on the porch, throwing a glance at one of his men so he'd get a blanket for her. "I'm sorry but we found a note. A suicide note. Professor Goodfellow ..."

"Was murdered." She interrupted him resolutely.

"Susan...May I call you Susan? Susan, I understand it is very hard to accept when a loved one takes their own life..."

"I'm sure it is, but he didn't." Susan stood, with a dismissive wave refusing the proffered blanket. "My uncle Fred was murdered. I know he was. I have proof! Look..." She hastily tried opening her purse. "Look, he sent me a text message last night. It was only a name and I didn't understand but when I tried calling the phone was off. I was going to ask him about it but..."

Lestrade's phone began to ring.

"Please excuse me." He nodded at the stubborn redhead, confident that Stuart, his man who still held the blanket, would keep an eye on her.

"Inspector Lestrade."

"Lestrade, you've got to help me."

"John, I've already told you, I have no interesting cases for him. I'll let you know when something pops up..."

"He's driving me mad! Do you know he crashed his own bed at 4 a.m.? Come on, Lestrade, it doesn't have to be a good case, just something to get him distracted or a little bit...Anything..."

"I get where you're coming from, mate, but Scotland Yard isn't a babysitting centre for temperamental consultants! Sherlock is just going to have to..."

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" Susan's voice perked up behind him.

A moment later her hands were on his shoulder and she was shouting over him to the phone. "Tell Sherlock Holmes there is a murder case, disguised as a suicide! Tell him to hurry or they'll much it up even more! Hurry!" She started yelling the address before Stuart could pull her away.

"John, disregard that lady's interruption. As I was saying..."

"It's ok, we're on our way."

Lestrade sighed.

"Fine."

He turned to look at the redhead, who met his gaze with grim triumph.

"You know you're probably wasting everyone's time."

"I know uncle Fred. You'll thank me later."

"Well, Susan." Lestrade sat down beside her. "We'll just have to wait and see."

.

* * *

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A/N I'm back!

Special thanks to: Thegirlwhoneverforgot, likingthistoomuch, mrspencil, yashi14, Wink N Nodd, gliblet, ainamidake, Gheart, SaraBahama, Bromeo and Christie for the reviews and support. Your kind words really helped motivate me to get back to writing. Thanks again for the reviews!

I'll try an update sooner next time :)


	3. Texts

"So he gave you his books? Well, that's cool of him." Alice shrugged as they walked into the Hospital canteen. The place had the same aroma as any such eatery: a mixture of boiled vegetables and disinfectant.

Molly's friend picked up a brown tray, then put it down again. "This one's wet. This one's wet, this one's wet as well...Ah." After finding the tray with a satisfactory moisture ratio, Alice moved aside to get the cutlery and some bread. "What are you going to do with them? Sell them?"

Molly picked up the dented tray on top of the pile and wiped it dry with a tissue. "I'd really like to keep them all, but I don't have room. I was thinking of looking through them, keeping the ones I truly like and donating the rest. Hello, Ellie. Could I have the pasta, please? Thanks. No desert today, Ellie, I've brought some apricots from home. Thanks anyway. Here you go. Bye"

The two friends, trays in hand, looked for a free table. Some had been claimed by bored visitors, the best ones had been taken by colleagues and one was occupied by someone whose face was concealed by a newspaper. Finally they found a spot, next to the giant white pots full of plastic plants that acted as a divider.

"I do remember he had a print of " _Cyrurgia_ " by Henri de Mondeville; he let me borrow it once and I'd love to keep it if it's still in his office..." Molly mused.

"So does that mean you'll be going to London to get the books? When?" Alice asked as they sat down, dusting away the crumbs left behind by careless patrons.

"Next week." Molly opened her bottle of water. "I'm actually surprised Barts left Dr Paten's things in that room for so many months, it was very nice of them."

"Maybe you could try booking some job interviews while you're there!" Her friend suggested.

"If I find any...There doesn't seem to be a need for any pathologists right now." She sighed. "Never mind, I'm looking forward to going to London, regardless."

"Have you told Sherlock yet?" Alice winked.

"No, not yet." Molly replied quietly

"Are you going to suprise him?" Her friend grinned. "You could ask John to let you in, and just slip into the bed so when Sherock arrives he'll..."

"Alice!" Molly blushed. " I'll tell him this evening."

"Come on, I'm sure he'd like it." Alice encouraged, biting into some carrots. "We know he's into kinky stuff, so you could..."

"What on Earth are you on about?" Molly almost dropped her cup.

"Well, yeah! After all the things his ex girlfriend said, like; The deer hunter hat and stuff... He's a big perv." Alice laughed. "Don't act like you don't know."

Molly looked down at her plate, pushing her penne around with her fork. "She was just saying that stuff for money. I don't think any of it's true."

"Why, has he been all vanilla with you?" Alice put her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her joined hands.

"Alice..."

"Bah, you're not fun." Her friend complained, leaning back. "Whenever I ask for details you close up like a clam."

"There's just not much to talk about, Alice. Nothing happened."

"The man you've been in love with for donkey's years comes all the way here to win you back, he stays the night...And nothing happened. Ok, hpw drunk did the two of you get? Don't worry, first times might not always be the best, but..."

"Nothing happened, Alice. It's...We're...It didn't happen, ok?" Molly could feel her cheeks grow hotter as Alice's brow raised.

"Not even a kiss?"

"We held hands..."

"Wow." Her friend paused, contemplating the bright red pathologist in front of her. "Are you...Ok with that?"

"We're..." _Complicated. Messed up. . Doomed._ "...Taking it slowly."

"All right. You've always picked the odd ones... As long as you're happy, Mols, I'm happy for you." Alice leaned over and gave her friend's hand a light sqweeze. "Just promise to give me any good gossip if it pops up, ok?"

"Agreed." Molly smiled.

When Alice went to the bathroom, Molly checked her phone.

Nothing.

She started to type a message, but her fingers hovered, unsure as to what letters to press.

 _I'm typing just because I want to feel close to you, to let you know I'm thinking about you... Hoping you're thinking about me. Are you?_

She cancelled the unsent text and typed again.

 _I'll be in London next week, for a few days. Let's go on a date. A real one. No corpses. M._

Molly deleted the last part.

 _I'll be in London next week, for a few days._

 _M._

She put the phone back in her bag.

It beeped.

 _Ok._

 _S._

* * *

Professor Frederick Goodfellow's home was a beautiful Stuccoed Victorian home in Belsize park, at the corner of Belsize Terrace. Lush, healthy trees lined the steet and cast dancing shadows over two men as they marched purposefully to the house.

Sherlock saw Lestrade and the redhead before they noticed him. The woman was, apparently, on an enthusiastic tirade...Lestrade was leaning back, taking the full brunt of the woman's opinions, although the bemused and slightly inspired expression led one to believe it wasn't an entirely unpleasant experience.

The Detective Inspector rose awkwardly as soon as he spotted the two friends. "Sherlock. John. This is..."

"Doctor Spivey, pleased to meet you. Thank you for coming."

 _Natural redhead. Loves reading. A doctor. Susan. Short temper. Kind. Sharp tongue. A romantic. Molly would like her._

"I know Uncle Fred didn't kill himself. Look, he sent me this, I don't know what it means, but..."

Sherlock barely glanced at her and the two words on the screen then marched through the front door.

John followed, watching his friend. The soldier's eyes fell on the corpse. An elderly man, heaped on the carpet like a mistreated, neglected ragdoll. The doctor winced, hoping the poor chap could soon be restored to a more dignified position. On the carpet there was a sleek coffee table, and on that there was a mobile phone and a little blue vial.

"Why hemlock?" He muttered. "If someone wanted to commit suicide, why not choose a swift, painless death? Why pick something that takes so long you might change your mind but be unable to save yourself?"

Sherlock stood quietly over the body. Hemlock works its way up, slowly paralising a person starting from the feet until it rises and stops the heart. The professor had sat down again after drinking the hemlock, but at some point had moved and collapsed on the floor in that uncomfortable contortion. Unless someone intentionally had him fall and then watched him... Unable to lift himself, he would have had to wait for death to claim him as he was...

John shook his head. "Maybe he was punishing himself..."

"Or being punished." Doctor Spivey interjected, standing next to him. "My uncle loved life, he would never have killed himself." She spoke bravely but John heard her voice tremble.

"I'm sorry." He murmured. Her chin rose ever so slightly.

"You'll see, I'm right." She almost whispered, her eyes never leaving the consulting detective as he crouched by her old friend.

The consulting detective huffed in annoyance.

"Too many people." He growled. "They walked all over the carpet, ruining any trace of separate footsteps...Such incompetence." Sherlock shook his head in disgust as he stepped into the kitchen next door.

The professor wasn't a skilled cook, his kitchen was simple and almost bare, however tastefully designed by a hired eye. Light blue wooden counters with marble surfaces had a contemporary, fresh feel yet undeniably paid homage to its Victorian setting. A tea towel was messily thrown to one side, in contrast to the otherwise tidy space. In a corner a steel kettle stood proudly next to a little tray where a mug, teabag inside, waited patiently to be filled with tea. Sherlock moved closer, and looked inside the mug, nodding to himself.

He returned to the living room and stood quietly over the twisted corpse of a once respected professor.

"When did the cleaning lady come over last?" He asked over his shoulder.

"Four days ago. The woman was due to come today...She found him." Lestrade answered.

The consulting detective knelt close to the coffee table and wiped it with his finger. He then stared quietly at the mobile phone resting on it.

"The redhead is right." Sherlock decreed, standing. "This man had no intention of killing himself. He was murdered, forced to drink the hemlock."

"...Thank you." Susan said softly. "Please...Please excuse me." She trembled slightly and stepped outside as the truth opened the doors to grief.

"How..."Lestrade began.

"The mug in the kitchen." Sherlock cut him off.

"Mmh...What?"

"The professor was going to make himself some tea. You don't start making tea if you know you're not going to be able to have it."

"Maybe he had put the teabag there out of force of habit, maybe it was something he did before going to bed so he would just have to pour the water in the morning..." The Detective inspector suggested hesitantly.

"Possibly." Sherlock conceded. "Some people do put in the teabag in advance...But not the honey." He added. "The old fellow already added it, but he wouldn't leave honey in a mug overnight, so he was going to have tea when he was murdered."

Lestrade walked into the kitchen and inspected the mug. With a jerk from his head one of his men started taking pictures as evidence.

"Why kill this old man? Did they steal anything?" John pondered. "Hemlock hardly seems a conventional weapon..."

"Professor Goodfellow knew he was in trouble." Sherlock stated flatly; he pointed at the smartphone on the table. "The layer of dust on the table is thinner than that on the phone screen, except for the bottom part where he would swipe to answer." He waited for the penny to drop.

"So..." John's brow furrowed. "He used the phone some time before the table was dusted?"

"Yes, but it means more than that." Sherlock obliged his woefully slow audience. "A dusty screen means he only used it for receiving calls, at least until recently before the murder. Now," he asked with a small smile "If he only used it for calls, how did he send the text?"

John's eyes widened. "He used a different phone."

Sherlock nodded "You'll find that the number she received the text from is different than that of the phone here. Professor Goodfellow kept a secret phone and number to contact you."

"How do you know it's a secret?" John queried, "Some people have multiple phones, one for work, one for their private life..."

"Unless they are doing something untoward, they don't hide those phones." The consulting detective pointed out. "Here we have one phone, carefully placed in plain sight. The other is concealed." Sherlock moved to be closer to the corpse and closed his eyes.

Professor Goodfellow was making tea. He sent the text and poured in the honey, then washed his hands. The tea towel cast hastily aside meant he was surprised and rushed...The doorbell had rung. The professor took the phone and hurried to the door. He didn't have time to hide the phone anywhere else in the house..." Sherlock walked up to the front door, stooped in front of the umbrella stand and pulled out the largest one. Tilting it upwards, he opened his free hand underneath the opening...And caught the old-fashioned little black phone that slipped out of it.

"What..." John asked in awe "What was in the text he sent?" What were the last written words of a dying man?

Sherlock turned to his friend, his icy eyes deep and intense.

"Edie Potts" He replied darkly.

"Who's that?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

.

.

.

* * *

A/N

There is a strong temptation, when writing about people falling in love, to concentrate on the"get together" part, often with the climax being the world-shaking kiss. Everything after that will be perfect, because they are in love, and it will be happy endings all around...Although I am a huge romantic and I have a weak spot for wildly romantic kiss scenes, I do believe that it would be a shame to always assume everything will be idyllic after that. To do so takes away from the complexity of the characters and belittles their journey:

the Sherlock and Molly at the beginning of "The coffee cup and the suitcase" are different than those in "The valley of boxes", but they are still Sherlock and Molly! Their relationship has to reflect who they are, and I try to keep that in mind as I write.

Therefore, although I would love to provide the fluff you sometimes ask for, I must tread carefully or risk losing Sherlock and Molly along the way.

I guess I am an unconventional type of romantic...Or, rather, they are.

The name "Edie Potts" is from a name I found written on the back of a quaint wooden box containing an old thimble collection. It was a present for my mother.

I know not who this Edie Potts is, she is her own little mystery, but has inspired a part of this story.

Warm and humble thanks to:

mrspencil, likingthistoomuch, Rocking the Redhead (who has provided great inspiration), Emma Lynch for the kind reviews. Your comments make me smile and encourage me to continue. Thank you.


	4. Edies

"There are 14 Edie Pottses right now." Lestrade looked at the folder. "23 if we add Edith Potts." He handed it to Sherlock. "5 are in London. None seem to have any connection with our victim."

"There has to be one." John's brow furrowed. "If the name was Goodfellow's dying words..." Lestrade nodded in assent while the consulting detective looked through the profiles.

"These are all alive." Sherlock stated flatly. "I need to see the dead ones, too."

"Yes, we're sorting through those." The D.I. turned to him. "How far back do you want us to look?"

"As far back as necessary."

Lestrade's jaw clenched grimly. "Right. You have a look at those in the meantime, see if you notice anything our men missed."

"A Donkey would notice things your men miss."

"Sherlock..."

"We're on it." John burst in cheerfully, pulling his friend away from the glowering Lestrade. "Don't you worry!"

* * *

"So, what next?" The doctor looked at Sherlock as they walked out of the building.

"Well" the consulting detective hummed "we're going to pay a visit to Edie Potts."  
"Oh? Which one?"

"All of them."

* * *

The rest of the day was a fantastic display of Sherlock's disguising and dissimulation talents. The first disguise was that of a hopeful applicant for a job as a teacher in a grammar school. In a wonderfully uninspiring tweed suit, his hair straightened and slicked back, Sherlock held his mock CV in one hand and pulled at his bowtie.

John chuckled. "You look like the eleventh Doctor."

"Who?"

"Exactly."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "It's nearly fist break, we don't have much time."

"That's ironic...Sorry." John grinned.

"Wait here."

With a resigned roll of his eyes, Sherlock hunched his shoulders slightly and modified his demeanour to turn into the picture of a timid yet enthusiastic academic.

He walked into the school's main entrance and headed to the reception desk, where the Secretary was looking at him with the polite but guarded expression typical of the profession.

"Good morning, I'm professor Kimble, I spoke on the phone to your head teacher this morning and I have come to drop off my CV for perusal."

"Thank you, Professor, I will pass this on to Ms Harris." She smiled emptily.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, could you please direct me to the gents'?"

The secretary tried to hide the uncertainty that momentarily darkened her eyes.

Nail polish chipped, due to scratching at them unconsciously. Very little make-up, carefully applied. Enough to look professional but demure enough to not warrant attention. No pets. Cuts her own hair. Works overtime every day...

"...New places make me nervous."

She smiled understandingly. "The guest restroom is over there, to the left."

"Thank you." Sherlock began to walk towards the bathrooms, his eyes darting until he found the target: he spotted one of the big red fire alarm bells. A quick press and he darted into the bathrooms just before the secretary could rush out.

"What's happening?" Sherlock cried in alarm, walking out of the toilet.

"A fire drill, I'm sure, Professor." The secretary cried hurriedly as she picked up some files from a drawer. "Come with me." She added, leading him through the nearest fire escape: a big door that gave onto a beautiful open garden with a basketball court and running field.

As the children poured into the inside garden and lined up on the court with their teachers, Sherlock glossed through them all as he searched for Edie Potts. Finally, he saw her: a teacher in her 40's, black hair cut in a long bob, gently but firmly clutching the hand of one overly excited child as she shepherded a boisterous Reception class on the court, all without raising her voice. Three seconds of observing Edie Potts 1 told him that she was a vegan, and the least likely person to ever willingly hurt anybody. Ever. The possibility of her being a witness knowingly implicated was also instantly dismissed. Sherlock shook his head.

The secretary turned to speak to Professor Kimble, but he was gone.

* * *

Edie Potts 2 was a faster affair: a twelve-year-old with brown curls, big teeth, a Facebook profile and subpar knowledge of internet security was hardly a criminal mastermind, nor a witness...Otherwise he would have posted about it.

* * *

Edie Potts 3 was a mother of four and worked at a bakery. Although she spoke openly of murderous thoughts, it was plain she barely had time to shower properly, let alone kill the victim with the slow, deliberate style the murderer displayed. Some people are simply too busy.

She did make great baguettes, though!

* * *

Edie Potts 4 was an attractive lady in her early thirties. She was working at a business manager in an office in the West End. Sherlock and John watched as she stepped outside of the building she worked at. Edie wore black kitten heels, a black boat neck top and a bright, canary-yellow skirt that lightly flowed about as she walked. Oblivious of the two men watching her, she stepped into Carlisle street and made her way to a pub with black panels decorating the windows, called Nellie Dean of Soho.

"It's not her." Sherlock shrugged and started to walk away. Suddenly he froze. Slowly he turned to stare at the pub. Then with grim determination her strode towards it.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked, trying to conceal his excitement.

"Lunch."

* * *

In order to meet Edie Potts 5, the consulting detective had to age 50 years.

John carefully held Sherlock's arm as he led his "grandad" to the hospice.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Watson", the doctor smiled at the receptionist. "My grandad has finally agreed to stay in a home, but insists on seeing them first. I've heard good things about this establishment, so would it be possible to..."

"You ungrateful dolt, you just want to get me out of the house, don't you?" Sherlock garbled morosely. "They'll just shove me into a cage, with a broken TV and no garden..."

The receptionist smiled with the kindly, motherly pose of someone used to handling senior citizens and small children. "I assure you, Sir, The Golden Willows is nothing like that!"

"Come one, grandad," John patted Sherlock affectionately on the back. "Go and sit down while the nice lady and I fix an appointment...Is that all right, Miss? He gets tired very quickly..."

"That's absolutely fine, Doctor." The receptionist stood and waved her hand to her left. "There is a bright, spacious lounge right here."

"Humph." Sherlock sniffed "I'm not such an old fart, there is no need to treat me like a child." The senior citizen dropped his walking stick and took a few steps towards the receptionist. Then his strength gave way and he lost his balance; his hands grasped at the desk, pulling some papers down with him.

"Grandpa!" John cried in alarm, grabbing Sherlock's elbow and halting his fall. "I'm so sorry, Miss. Grandad, seriously."

Sherlock's eyes took in everything they could before the receptionist and John picked up the papers from the floor.

The receptionist didn't falter " Of course not, I just thought you might like to have a first look at the hospice for yourself: you can see our lovely gardens from the window and maybe you could get to know some of our guests..."

"Mmh. Yes. I do enjoy gardens." Sherlock nodded, placing a wearied, trembling hand on his back.

"John boy, I need to sit down a moment."

"Of course, grandad. I'll come and get you when we are done here. "

As John talked shop with the hospice staff, grandad Sherlock creaked his way to the quiet lounge space. The TV was showing Jeremy Kyle (how could _anyone_ think that dim-witted twit had cheated? Did they even _see_ his collar?) and a faint smell of turpentine and moth balls hovered in the air.

Edie Potts, with white hair and a pink shawl, was sitting in a rocking chair facing the window. Sherlock slowly hobbled his way closer and leaned heavily on his walking stick. "Good day, Ma'am; my grandson is thinking of leaving me here, would you recommend this place for an old grump like me?"

Edie Potts did not reply, nor show any sign of having heard. Sherlock tried again.

A think line of spittle trickled down the lady's chin. The consulting detective blinked, then straightened up and started walking to his friend.

His phone beeped. Sherlock read the text and blinked. He paused, then typed two letters as a response; His thumb hovered momentarily over the screen, then he hastily pressed send before dropping the phone back in his pocket. For a moment he stayed still, then quietly turned to look at the old lady.

Sherlock returned to her side, took a tissue from a box on the coffee table, and gently wiped the woman's chin.

Finally, he stood and marched over to his friend.

"Let's go, John." He said briskly, storming out of the front door, leaving a bewildered receptionist in his wake.

"Did you find anything interesting?" John asked as they walked away from the Golden Willows home.

"I did." Sherlock replied. "Molly is coming back to London."

* * *

The sun was just setting outside as Molly sat down on her couch, a cup of tea in her hands. Toby jumped onto her lap, curled his front paws under his chest and assumed the drowsy, content expression of a well-fed, well-spoiled pet ready for a nap.

She looked at her phone.

She sipped her tea.

Her phone was on the coffee table in front of her.

She crossed her legs.

She looked at the phone again.

She put the tea down. On the coffee table.

While she was there, she picked up the phone and put it on the couch, by her side.

She stroked Toby, who flattened his ears obligingly.

She picked up the phone again and made the call.

"Yes."

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Hello, Molly."

"So…You read my message?"

 _Stupid. Stupid question. He answered it, you idiot! Idiot!_

 _"_ I did." Sherlock replied.

She heard him clear his throat.

"You were pretty vague though: you said next week, for a few days. What day are you planning to arrive? How many do you plan to stay?"

"Well..." Molly hesitated "Uhm, it depends, really. As soon as I find a Hotel that isn't too exp..."

"Hotel?"

"Well, yes, Sherlock. I couldn't keep the apartment..." When the contract expired for her old flat she couldn't afford to renew it, not while still paying for her current home in Manchester.

"Stay here."

"Pardon?" She tilted her head, one hand stroking Toby's back.

"There is room here. You don't need a hotel. Stay here."

Molly's hand froze.

"So, your last shift of the week is tomorrow... That means you would be free to come from Monday, right?"

"Yes, but..."

"What's wrong?"

Her throat felt dry. Molly swallowed.

"Nothing!" She breathed.

"Ok. See you on Monday."

The tea went cold on the coffee table before Molly moved again.

.

* * *

.

A/N

Thanks to ainamidake, mrspencil, SaraBahama, Icecat62, likingthistoomuch and TheSandFromTheEmbers for the lovely reviews. You have no idea how much they help!


	5. Nightie or Pyjamas

A/N

From now on there will be references to season 4, so big spoiler alert!

Sherlock stung me, in the past.

When I was writing "The Valley of Boxes" I had originally planned to have the killer be the photographer. Then the mayfly episode came out, forcing me to dramatically change the story in order to present something original. Although I was extremely pleased that I had such similar ideas as the authors, it was a hassle. Even the "other man", in their case Tom, was unexpected but I felt Sherlock needed a valid competitor to make him understand his shortcomings and make him want to better himself.

Therefore, when I realised how close the new series was, I decided to wait until all the episodes had aired before continuing, so I would be ready in case I had to make changes. As for "The Final Problem"...Wow! I am still basking in the glow of it all, especially the phone scene...

Yes, some changes had to be made in the overall, overreaching plot, but thankfully not too many. There is one part that is still in common with the new season, you'll know it when you read it, but as it was a HUGE part of this fic I cannot eliminate or modify it too much. I really should not write fics too close to new episodes.

All of this is basically to say sorry for the delay.

As an apology, I have joined 2 chapters together to make a longer, juicier one. I hope you like it.

Right, on to the story!

.

* * *

.

Nightie or pyjamas?

Molly hovered beside the bed, carefully pondering her options as an empty suitcase gaped before her.

Sherlock knew Molly usually wore pyjamas, but there was something so unappealing about her Primark pink and grey polka dot bottoms and the fluffy top with "Don't dull my sparkle" on it.

If she wore a nightie, Sherlock would notice the change.

On the other hand, a sexy nightie might send the wrong message.

What was the message exactly, anyway? She sat down on the bed.

What did she expect from this...This hospitality?

More importantly, what did HE expect.

Maybe he didn't think anything was going to happen. Maybe he didn't want anything to happen at all and would just ignore her as he pursued the next case. Come on, they'd never even been on a real date yet!

But he invited her.

He could have let her get a hotel, but he didn't.

Maybe he was just being nice.

Sherlock? Sherlock is never nice to anybody.

That's not true, he's nice to Mrs. Hudson.

And to John, most of the time.

And to her, sometimes.

She smiled.

That's all very fine and good, but that doesn't pack suitcases.

So...Nightie or pyjamas?

"Bah." Molly closed the suitcase. She'd decide tomorrow.

.

* * *

.

He turned the wrinkled, worn picture over and over in his fingers, sitting in the dark bedroom. A solitary shaft of light broke through the darkness, striking the floor at his feet. The picture had been given to him crisp and immaculate; it had become wrinkled and worn in his hands.

"Hello? Sherlock?" A familiar voice called as his front door opened.

The picture was swiftly returned to the envelope and back in the drawer.

Sherlock emerged, hands calmly clasped behind his back. "Hello, John. Is your schedule free for the day?"

His friend sat on the armchair with enthusiastic leisure. "I've no more patients this afternoon, and Rosie's with her grandparents. They're going to the lake, there will be rabbits. Rosie loves rabbits...And emus. I don't know why, but she's obsessed with them." A wry smile played on the proud father's lips.

"Tea?"

"Thanks. So, any news?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

suddenly the doorbell rang. Sherlock went to the door.

"Who's that?" John enquired, reaching for the newspaper.

"Just a delivery." Sherlock took the package inside.

"Who from?" John's curiosity rose in his voice.

"Me. I bought something."

"Oh." John looked at the package, wondering what his friend was up to. " What did you get? An experiment? Chemicals? Explosives?" He leaned forward.

"New bed sheets."

"Oh." John tried to conceal the disappointment.

"I believe Lestrade's men should have cracked the phone by now..." Sherlock called the Inspector.

Greg answered with a tired, stiff voice. "There were two other phone numbers on Goodfellow's secret phone." The detective inspector quickly informed the consulting detective. "One was a virtual number, untraceable; the other belongs to a Mr. Pyrling. He isn't answering any calls. We're on our way to his home now."

"Send the address, we'll meet you there."

* * *

Mr. Pyrling was rich.

Revoltingly so.

His address was in Kensington W8. The consulting detective and the doctor walked into the crisp white building, crossed a tastefully understated white lobby and met an officer -only started a few weeks ago, mixed martial arts fan, recently been in a brawl, loves herbal teas and embroidery- who had been waiting for them. He carried a key with which one could activate the immaculate, gilded lift.

Moments later the elevator opened directly into the luxurious apartment. John whistled softly. "Isn't the fountain in the entrance a bit much?" he murmured under his breath. Sherlock remained silent, his eyes taking everything they could.

Mr. Pyrling's living room was spotless. A modern, sleek grey and white palette nicely showcased an impressive XIV century bucolic tapestry. A white _arabescato_ marble fireplace stood on the opposite wall; inside there was no firewood but a single violet orchid in a fluted vase.

They walked on marble floors past the kitchen-diner area with its induction stove, heading towards the familiar sounds of police trampling over evidence. The three stepped into a large bathroom that was equipped with an opulently oversized tub and a hot air sauna for four. Inside the sauna slumped the body of the now deceased Mr. Pyrling.

Greg greeted them. "The sauna was still on when we came in and we found no sign of intrusion. If he hadn't been connected to Goodfellow, I would have thought he simply lost consciousness in the sauna after staying too long and deemed this an accident..."

"As it is, it's hard to prove anything amiss..." John frowned slightly. The body was severely burned, and a disturbingly pleasant smell of cooked flesh hovered in the air.

"Not so." Sherlock moved steadily towards the corpse. "We have clear evidence right in front of us. This man was murdered, and not here."

"How do you know that?"

The consulting detective picked up the right wrist of the late Mr. Pryling: on his middle finger was a ring. John knew the flesh beneath it would be badly scorched.

"If Mr. Pryling had intentionally gone into the sauna, he would have taken off his ring so as to avoid getting burned. Whoever tortured him didn't think to remove it before placing him here."

"Wait, do you mean he wasn't killed here?" Lestrade's brow raised.

"Tortured?" John's tone lowered.

"Just look around you!" Sherlock made a sweeping motion with the corpse's hand before dropping it and using his own.

"There is no sign of struggle at all, and there is no lock on the sauna, nor any mark on the glass, so he wasn't trapped inside. More importantly, fire!"

"What about fire?" The new officer, asked in awe as Sherlock walked past him and opened the bedroom door.

"Look at the bed, John. What do you see?" The consulting detective said crisply.  
"It's...very big. "John started, cautiously. "Expensive-looking sheets, a thick duvet, wooden frame..."

"Yes. The duvet. Think about it."

John shrugged. "It's summer but he still sleeps with a duvet, he has a sauna... He suffers the cold?"

"Yes. Now look at the kitchen! The kitchen has an induction stove, everything is electric. The fireplace could very well be working, considering it seems to be in impeccable shape, yet there is no firewood anywhere, nor any tools for keeping a fire! There are no candles, either; in fact, the only thing inside the fireplace is an element of water, an instinctive choice. We have a man who hates being cold, who loves to show off his wealth, but who never uses his giant fireplace and avoids any flames... This man was afraid of fire, and he was killed by it."

"There was no sign of struggle at Professor Goodfellow's house, either..." Greg mused. Sherlock nodded."You said he wasn't killed here. What do you think happened, then?"

"Pyrling was taken to a place where he was exposed to fire; the fear sent him into such deep panic he didn't even think to remove his ring as it burned him. You'll see the burn the ring caused is deeper and older than those on the rest of his body." He glanced knowingly at John. "When the killer was done, he brought Mr. Pryling back here and placed him in the sauna, thinking it would be deemed an accident, unaware that we found Goodfellow's secret phone. Greg, call Doctor Susan and ask her what her uncle was afraid of."

The consulting detective's tone changed slightly.

"If I'm correct, we have a murderer who uses his victims' worst fears to kill them."

* * *

2 hours, 15 minutes.

It wouldn't be a long train ride.

The chaotic bustle of the late afternoon crowd rang through Manchester Piccadilly station with a resounding din. Tired travellers dragged their suitcases away from the platforms, eager to get home, while others sprinted to their trains in mad, tardy stampedes. One man in a green hoodie typed texts on his phone. Some people stood with uplifted faces as if in prayer as they waited to see the platform number they needed. Small children screamed about forgotten toys and tasty treats as busy families rushed by.

Amid the frenzy stood a solitary figure clutching a small case.

The pathologist looked at her watch yet again; She had arrived too early, afraid to be late, and had another 20 minutes to wait.

Oh, God.

Standing around wasn't helping her anxiety. She shook her head slightly, blinking, then strode to Boots; a quick glance at the overpriced products made her step back and look around some more. With a sigh she opted for _Pret à manger;_ maybe she found something comforting in the brick wall interiors. She grabbed a power oats and maple smoothie and sat down. It was a few minutes before she remembered to try it.

Alice was going to take care of Toby. She had locked the door and given Alice the spare keys.

The gas was off.

Her toothbrush was in her handbag.

She had her papers.

Oh, God.

Molly looked at her nails.

She should have had a manicure.

She never had manicures!

She should have had one.

Molly looked at her watch.

15 minutes.

Molly swore under her breath.

Did she have her hairbrush?

Good God, did she have her hairbrush?

Oh.

Yes.

There it was.

A towel! She should have brought her own towel.

No. Sherlock was sure to have one, she could ask...

Oh my God.

Molly sank her face in her hands.

"The train for London..."

She should have brought her own towel.

* * *

Sherlock looked at his watch.

"So, what's next?" John asked his friend.

"We find the connection." he replied mater-of-factly, walking about the crime scene.

"How did Goodfellow and Pryling know each other? Why did Goodfellow have his secret phone? What was the third number for? Look for anything that might connect the dots." Sherlock stood in front of the small bookcase in Mr. Pyrling's room, taking in all the titles: "War and Peace" had hardly been touched, a thicker layer of dust covered it; "Le rouge et le noir" had actually been read a couple of times; the others were mostly for show and to impress guests.

Impress.

Mr. Pyrling did like to make a good impression...

Sherlock walked to the bed. The placement of the phone charger and alarm pointed at him using the right side. The consulting detective lay down and felt under the pillow, then reached under the mattress. Nothing.

Right, Mr. Pyrling had a maid make his bed.

Sherlock pulled the pillowcase off, unzipped the pillows and felt inside. Sure enough, he felt something. A small, worn booklet emerged in his hands: "Fighting Fear for a successful Future" a bestseller by doctor Steven Lynch. Published two months ago.

"I've just spoken to doctor Spivey." Greg cleared his throat. "It seems professor Goodfellow didn't tell her about any particular phobia, but she said he always said he'd prefer to shoot himself rather than die slowly. That's one of the reasons she didn't believe he'd killed himself: he would have chosen a quick death."

Sherlock nodded quietly.

"That still doesn't explain why Goodfellow had a secret phone, nor how the two knew each other." John sighed.

"We'll keep on looking." The consulting detective stood. "For starters, we'll have to look at past murder cases where the victim died from their phobia and," he added "I would also like to look through Goodfellow's books."

Greg rubbed the back of his head. "That can be arranged for tomorrow."

* * *

"So, we're going to be digging for past murders, then?" John stretched as they walked out of the building.

Sherlock looked at his watch.

"Hey, you know, I could have Rosie stay with the grandparents and help you out tonight. We could have..."

"No!" Sherlock cleared his throat at John's raised brow. "I mean, no, thanks, John. I...I need the space right now, and you should be with your daughter. I...I've got something to do, anyway. "

"Is everything ok, Sherlock?" John frowned slightly. "You're not up to anything stupid, are you?"

That's debatable.

"I'm fine, John. Go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

The doctor looked at his friend's eyes. The pupils looked fine. "All right." The soldier sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow." With a slight wave of his hand he turned around and started to walk away.

"John..."

"Yes?"

"Is my hair all right?"

"What?"

"Never mind. See you tomorrow."

* * *

Molly looked at herself in the small portable mirror.

She had somehow managed to salvage her hair by tying it in a high ponytail. Refreshing her makeup was slightly harder with a trembling hand, but her efforts were somewhat acceptable.

She was wearing brown, wide legged trousers under a checkered white and red blouse with a slightly frilled collar, the first two buttons were undone so a small garnet pendant peeked through. It wasn't sexy, but it was comfortable. It was her.

The sun was setting just as the train began to slow down.

With a prolonged hiss it opened its doors to London, her old home.

Slowly she stepped off and looked around.

People crossed her view as they passed in front of her, but she saw him.

Hands in the pockets of his trousers, a deep blue shirt rolled up just under the elbows, standing perfectly still, looking at her.

She smiled.

"Hello, Sherlock."

He nodded. "Hello, Molly. Your train was late."

"Was it?"

"Not by much." He turned and started to walk to the exit. "Did you have a good trip? You didn't sleep."

"I...I read." Molly stepped alongside him, clutching the small case close to her chest.

They walked in silence.

"How...How's the case going?"

"It's becoming interesting." Sherlock began. "I'll tell you the scene, see what you notice..."

As he spoke she let her hands fall to her sides; he took the case from her fingers.

They left the station together, the man with the green hoodie not far behind.

A few minutes later, they stepped out of the taxi and faced the front door of 221b Baker Street.

The consulting detective pulled out the keys from his pocket and opened the door.

Molly cleared her throat. "Thank you...For letting me stay."

Sherlock turned to look at her.

"Is that you, Sherlock? MOLLY!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "Oh, it's wonderful to see you dear!" She stepped out and gave the pathologist a hug. "I haven't seen you in ages. Sherlock, you didn't tell me Molly was here!"

"I was going to, Mrs. Hudson, now..."

"Now tell me, dear, have you moved back to London?"

"No, I...I'm only here for a few days, I am trying to move back here but..."

"Have you got plans for supper? Oh, do come in, I want to hear all the news!"

"Mrs. Hudson, Molly's just got off the train..."

"John used to come for a cup of tea and a chat but he's always so busy these days...You can come too, Sherlock. I'll make us some pasta."

So, Molly, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sat down for supper together. Molly couldn't help but smile and steal glances at the consulting detective whenever Mrs. Hudson would scold him for not eating enough and put more food on his plate. Sherlock initially was stony faced and quiet, but eventually relaxed, and the three talked about Mrs. Hudson's husband, her time as a stripper, how to properly bake scones and the case of the pickled thumb.

"Let me help you." Molly stood as Mrs. Hudson started clearing up the table. "I'll wash the dishes.

"That's a good girl." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I do have a dishwasher, though. No, off you go Thank you for the company. Bye! Bye, Sherlock! Goodnight! Make sure Molly gets home safe." And with that, Mrs. Hudson closed the door, leaving the two alone in the dark hallway.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, Doctor Hooper, let me make sure you get home safely." He picked up the case and walked behind her as they climbed up the stairs.

"I didn't have a chance to give it to you before." Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket when they reached the top. "Here." he said, handing her a small key holder with two keys on it. "The green one opens the front door." he added.

"Thank you." Molly coughed.

They stepped into the living room.

It was...Silent.

"The blue towels are yours." Sherlock said, walking up to the second floor bedroom and putting the case down in front of its door. "The hot water does come but it takes a moment. If the tap makes a rumbling sound just hit it, it will go away."

"Thank you." Molly repeated, numbly. She pushed open the door and turned on the light of what was John's bedroom. It was a rather large space, almost as big as the living room. The bed was queen sized, and a plain desk was on the left, in front of the window. A rather old looking armchair was on the right, next to a half-empty bookcase. A little hairdryer was on the desk. Molly stepped inside and put the case on the bed.

She heard Sherlock's steps as he walked back downstairs.

Molly opened the small suitcase...And felt her heart drop.

Nightie or Pyjamas?

She had forgotten to decide.

 _Idiot!_

Wear the shirt she had on?

No, she'd been on the train with it!

A clean shirt from the suitcase?

She barely had enough to last her a couple of days...

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

* * *

Sherlock was in his room.

Molly knocked.

"Come in."

She slowly pushed the door open.

He had been getting changed. He was wearing a grey t-shirt, blue striped pyjama bottoms and he was putting on a navy blue dressing gown as she stepped inside. His trousers and shirt lay upon the bed.

"Hey, Sherlock..."

"Yes, Molly."

"I..." She took a breath "I forgot my pyjamas. I would wear some of my day clothes but I..."

Sherlock looked at her with his seetly blue eyes, then turned to his open wardrobe, reached inside and pulled out a light blue shirt. He passed it to her without saying a word.

"Thank you." Molly took it gingerly. "I...I'll have a shower now, is that ok?"

"It's fine."

Sherlock walked out of the room, strode purposefully to the armchair, picked up some papers and began to study them intently.

Molly stepped into the bathroom and delicately placed the shirt next to the sink before getting into the shower.

Molly usually took showers in the morning before work, but she just couldn't stand going to bed without one after being on the train. She decided to make it a very quick one. She gasped as a shot of cold water fell on her shoulders and stepped back. With her hand she tested the water until it was bearable. She sighed with relief as warm water tricked down her back.

"I'll buy a nightie tomorrow." She mumbled to herself as she vigorously scrubbed her arms. "First thing in the morning, before I go to Bart's."

After a few minutes, she heard the violin playing.

She wanted to keep it a short shower, but there was something pleasant in getting washed to the rhythm of live music in the next room.

* * *

"Thanks again for lending me this."

Sherlock looked up from the violin as he heard her voice.

Flushed and still slightly damp, she stepped out of the bathroom in his blue shirt.

"Don't mention it." He looked back down again.

"I'll buy something tomorrow morning, I am sorry for the hassle."

"It's a perfectly natural behaviour."

"Pardon?"

"Forgetting your pyjamas. Yours was simply a subconscious impulse: it's a natural instinct many women have, as wearing a male's clothes is supposed to denote intimacy, pass on pheromones and increase sexual attractiveness."

Molly blinked in embarrassment. "I…I'm sorry."

"Don't be; I didn't say it was ineffective."

Molly opened her mouth and closed it again, blinking.

Sherlock had once more picked up the papers and was staring at them with quiet determination.

They stayed like that, in perfect silence, for a few seconds.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He didn't reply. Something must have caught his interest in those pages.

She slowly crept up the stairs, opened the bedroom door and slipped under the covers with a sigh. The bed sheets were fresh and soft, welcoming her with a smooth caress as her head nestled in the pillow. She was tired and welcomed sleep.

Yet, sleep was not quick to come.

She tossed and turned a while, but something kept her awake.

Could he hear her moving? Was he still in the living room below?

Molly listened but couldn't hear any noises from downstairs.

Had he gone to bed?

Was he asleep?

"Sherlock?" she whispered softly into the stillness of the night, so quietly she alone could hear. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" a hand slid out from under the sheets and lightly touched the floor. "What are you thinking right now, Sherlock?"

She closed her eyes.

Just outside her bedroom, Sherlock stood with his hand raised, his knuckle hovering inches from her door.

He lingered there, motionless.

Slowly his fingers uncurled, silently touching the door, and his head lowered as his forehead rested against the frame.

The sound of broken glass.

Sherlock dashed to the stairway window and looked out onto the street.

Nobody there.

He turned once more to look at her door.

Then, slowly, he walked back down the steps and into his room, quietly closing the door behind him.

.

* * *

.

A/N

My most sincere thanks to: ainamidake, mrspencil, guest, SaraBahama, likingthistoomuch for their comments.

Your reviews give me joy.


	6. A slow day

Molly hugged the pillow, feeling snug and warm. Bliss.

She languidly moved a leg, expecting to find Toby curled up at her feet.

Nothing.

Right, she's not home.

Oh. Right.

She opened her eyes.

A warm morning light seeped through the thin curtains, casting everything in the room under a welcoming glow. It was quiet.

Molly got out of bed, opened her case and pulled out the clothes for the day; holding them, folded, in her hands, she walked down the steps.

Sherlock was already dressed. He was sitting on the sofa, his hands cradling his chin as his elbows rested on his knees, studying a newspaper on the coffee table, next to his open computer. Two piles of newspapers stood on either side of him like silent, vigilant bodyguards.

Perhaps it was because she was rested, or maybe the fact that it was morning, but Molly didn't feel quite as awkward anymore.

"Good morning, Sherlock." She greeted him with a smile.

He looked up at her and quickly returned to his newspapers. "Good"morning, Molly."

She stepped into the bathroom and got ready.

Minutes later, Molly walked out in a pair of jeans, a pink shirt and a white, knightwork cardigan with pink edgings. Sherlock was still intent on his reading, although now he had a pencil in his hand.

Not wanting to disturb him, she stepped into the kitchen.

Then she smiled.

On the counter there was a steaming teapot and a clean mug, with a lemon slice already in it;next to that was a biscuit tin with custard creams inside.

Molly poured the tea and cradled the mug in her hands. She glanced in the sink and saw it was empty. Somehow she had expected dirty dishes, or even just a cup...

"Sherlock?" She called.

He did not reply.

"Sherlock." Molly waled back into the living room.

"Mmh?"

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Died from a fall...Acrophobia?" Sherlock typed with his right hand on the computer as he studied the paper. A quick glance at the screen and he shook his head. "Not when he lived on the fith floor." With his left hand he crossed something out on the page and transferred the newpaper to the pile on the left, then took a fresh one from the pile on the right and placed it on the table.

"Sherlock." Molly moved closer. He was reading the obituary page, now. "Have you had breakfast?"

He looked tired.

"Have you had breakfast."

"No. I'm not hungry. Died from a heart attack in a jammed lift? Interesting..."

Molly placed a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at her in a mixture of surprise and puzzlement.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?"

He frowned, blinking. Then he shrugged, bemused. "It's not important. Your tea will get cold." And with that, he returned to his paper.

Molly took a sip of the tea and walked back into the kitchen. She opened the fridge: there wasn't much, which didn't surprise her. A quick search in the cupboards was more fruitful as she discovered a lightly dusty, unopened tin of oats, probably left behind by John and thankfully still unexpired.

A few minutes later, se returned to the living room; Sherlock had moved on to another newspaper.

"Come and eat."

"Death by grasshopper? Interesting..." He scribbled on the notebook.

Molly shook her head; he couldn't even hear her.

Fine.

She quietly stepped closer to him, and with a smile took the pencil from his fingers.

In surprise he looked up. "Molly? I need that..."

Molly pulled her hair back in a bun and secured it with the stolen item.

"You can have it back when you've eaten."

"Eaten?" He blinked.

She took his hand and pulled slightly. "I made you breakfast, come on."

"Molly, I don't eat during a case..." He said, standing up and obligingly following her into the kitchen. "Food makes me lethargic, it dulls my mind..."

"No, junk food and Speedy's takeaway makes you sleepy; Food is fuel, and you need it. Now sit down."

Sherlock sat and looked at the large bowl of hot porridge in front of him.

"You made this?" He murmured.

"How perceptive of you." She replied dryly, sitting down opposite him in front of her own breakfast.

Sherlock picked up the spoon and silently began to eat.

"Why do you still rely on newspapers, Sherlock? Why not use internet? Even newspapers have websites..."

" _Interrete volant, scripta manent_." The consulting detective replied, simply. "Web pages can be changed, but what was printed cannot." He explained before taking another spoonful. "I've so far managed to find 5 other cases over the past 3 years which might be linked, but I'll have to confirm them...I also have to do some more research on Mr Pyrling later today. There's something I'm missing. I might make a quick trip to Bart's, too." He added, glancing at her. "You plan on being there all day, judging by your shoes." Sherlock concluded.

Molly nodded. "If I remember his office correctly, there will be a lot of work for me: Professor Paten had a soft spot for books! On the way back I'll buy a nightie so I can return your shirt."

"You don't really need to do that." Sherlock frowned slightly. He lowered his spoon back into the bowl for more porridge, but it was empty.

"That was good." He cleared his throat.

"It was only porridge." Molly shrugged, stood up and took the bowl from him, turning away to place it in the sink along with the pan, her bowl and cutlery. Sherlock watched her, quietly.

"Leave it, I'll do that." He stood when she started to run the water.

"It's ok..." She stopped when he placed his hand on her shoulder.

"You cooked, I clean. That's how it works, right? Let me." He took the sponge from her fingers. "You need to get to Bart's, anyway. I'll see you later."

Molly nodded and stepped away, walking to the bathroom. After brushing her teeth, she took her handback, checked that she had the keys and went to the door.

"I'm going, then." She called.

"Ok. Molly..." Sherlock kept his eyes on the dishes. "Thank you for breakfast."

"It was just porridge." She murmured softly, and closed the door behind her.

.

* * *

.

"Oh my God! Molly!" Tom cried as she walked in. "How have you been?"

"Fine, thank you, Tom. How about yourself?"

"Can't you just come back?" Tom half-whispered at her. "Sherlock has been a real pain since you left..."

"I'm only here to sort through Professor Paten's office, Tom." Molly said, making her way to her old mentor's space.

"Oh, Well, good luck!" Tom laughed "Nobody will envy you that job! People have been returning books they borrowed from him for weeks." With that, he turned and walked away.

The pathologist halted in front of the office door.

A small, gold-coloured nameplate with blacklettersread "Professor Paten." She knocked.

Molly pushed the door; it opened half way, then stopped. She peeked through the door to see what was in the way.

A pile of books had fallen, blocking the entrance.

Oh, dear.

She side-stepped into the room.

The collapsed pile originally had been 4 feet high. The rest of the office was pretty much like she remembered it.

On the right wall of the room was his old wodden bookcase, at maximum capacity, with some books placed sideways in the space between the bookcase and the ceiling; an old, dusty red velvet armchair was in between the door and the bookcase.

The left wall had his degrees and academic accomplishments hanging in varous frames. The prized, central space consisted instead a bulletin board brimming with notes, letters from ex students and patients and children's drawings.

An antique globe was in between the left wall and the desk which held its position at the opposite side of the door, in front of a large window. His large oak desk had a row of books all around the edge of the surface, giving the appearance of a little paper fort on his workspace; two extra piles on either side of the desk added to the bibliocastle effect;

Molly stepped onto the red, dusty persian carpet and looked around. Then she walked to the window and opened it, to bring in some fresh air.

Don't feel overwhelmed.

You can do this.

Molly had decided to go with a Konmari approach: she would start with the books that had as little personal value as possible, that were still in print and were therefore more easy to handle. Then she would move on to the rarer books and finally the ones that had some emotional attachment. As Professor Paten kept his most cherished books on his desk, she would takle that area last.

Molly decided she would make 4 different categories: books to donate to charity, books for the student's library, books that loved ones might want and finally books for her to keep.

But first she had to get that 5 foot pile back up...

As she sat down on the carpet to work, she determined to open the books and check if they were in good enough condition or if they needed mending.

Then, as she opened the first book, she couldn't help but laugh.

Doctor Paten had always been a bit forgetful, and not one for technology.

Hence, he liked making notes.

Lots of them.

He would scribble comments and observations on any book he was studying, sometimes even between the lines. On occasion, when hurried or distracted, he would even write completely random things that he needed to remember at that moment. It tug a bit at Molly's heart, for example, to find his shopping list carefully penned on the first page of "Surgical Pathology", or the beginnings of a love letter to Amélie dotted along the side of "Differential Diagnosis: Genitourinary system".

Resisting the urge to waste time reading his little notes, she closed the books and got more seriously to work.

A few hours later, Molly stretched her aching back. She had made a valiant effort, and looked with wearied pride at the 3 piles she had created on the carpet; The 5 foot mountain had been vanquished and almost half of the book case was now empty. At the moment she had not yet picked any books for herself, but suspected that the one she had her heart set on was at his desk, which she hadn't even touched...

Her back hurt.

Molly looked at her watch. 4:30 p.m.

The shops would be closing in an hour.

Her nightie!

She would stop for now, go buy a nightie...and some groceries. Sherlock didn't have any fruit or veg at all in that kitchen! Molly nodded to herself, stepping out of the door. She would drop off her purchases at 221B and then make some calls to possible recipients of the books...

It sounded like a plan.

A 20 minute ride on the tube took her to a supermarket.

Holding a shopping bag loaded with fruit, vegetables, legumes and a box of custard creams, after having shoved a bag of oranges into her handbag when no more room was left, Molly almost missed the little shop, so very close to 221B.

With an antique body form in the window and with little white bows decorating the entire display, she felt as graceful as an ox as she stumbled inside with her bag of shopping... But the lady there just smiled and let her be, thankfully.

Usually Molly would buy some cheap, cozy pyjama without even trying it on, but this time she wanted something that looked expensive...Without looking too much of anything else, she thought as she hurriedly pushed aside an item that was more string than nightdress.

This.

Molly pulled off the rack a beautifully light nightgown. A pale, antique rose coloured bottom layer which fell just above the knee was delicately covered with exquisitely fine black lace, further emphasising the tasteful but bold V-neck and giving the whole nightgown a vintage yet timeless, enticing look.

"I would like this, please." Molly said with finality.

Blushing slightly, she clutched the little grey bag with its pink bow, so dainty next to the shopping bag. Molly then took a deep breath, and began the short walk to 221B.

When she was only a block away, she stopped at a red light.

The sun was still up and it was a beautiful day; Molly watched a little sparrow as it preened itself on the street lamp. Sudenly it flew across the street to land on the rubbish bin to her right...

That's when she saw him.

He was leaning against the wall, apparently looking at the phone in his hand.

A man in a green hoodie.

She had seen him in Manchester.

Now he was here.

He looked up and their eyes met.

The light was green.

Molly ran.

.

.

* * *

A/N

The Konmari method is a real thing, it's used for tidying up!

My warmest thanks to Mrspencil, likingthistoomuch, carmengaar and ainamidake for the kind reviews.

Thank you for reading my fic!


	7. The flight, the fight, the stillness

_A/N_ Hello everyone, I'm back!

I am so sorry to have kept you all waiting so long, but it has been a very, very eventful year and I ended up getting a bit of writer's block in this fic. I have decided however to plough through.

hopefully you will understand and forgive me.

I would like to give special mention to those who have written to me asking to update. I did see you, and you are a big reason I decided to return to this site. You helped me remember how much I love writing.

At the end of the chapter I have a piece of happy news I would like to share with you.

Now, on to the story!

.

* * *

 _._

 _Run_

Molly could hear the voice screaming in her head, her animal impulse to flee.

Her shopping bags were heavy.

 _Drop them._

 _Not the handbag._ Her rational side answered. _Keys._

 _Not the handbag._

A can of baked beans and some apples rolled down the street and under a car as she bolted.

"Miss! Your things!" A voice called behind her in surprise. Horns blared and brakes screeched as she ran through the red light.

 _Don't look back._

Her handbag was so heavy. Was he giving chase?

 _Don't look back._

 _Just keep running._

.

* * *

.

Sherlock walked quietly around Pyrling's office. The house had provided no new information, although he couldn't shake off the feeling he had overlooked something.

There was always something, he shook his head at himself.

Mr Pyrling was a man of business, a tycoon with exceptional talent for spotting a good investment. At least that was what was on an article of "The Howler", along with his picture, proudly framed and hanging on the wall for all to see.

The office had a lavish waiting room, with the last editions of the Economist, Business Week, The Howler and WSJ, along with some lifestyle and real estate magazines. After a brief glance Sherlock walked into the office itself.

Pyrling liked his space uncluttered and simple, but he still wanted to make people acutely aware of his wealth, so great care had been placed in the choice of the resin floor, the fiberglass-reinforced gypsum board panels and in the agate wall behind the desk.

John whistled softly "Fancy." Sherlock said nothing.

The two searched for any clues. "Did the man have a wife?" John asked suddenly "Any family?"

Sherlock shook his head "There are no pictures if not of himself, alone or with famous people, here or at his house. Look at that white sofa by the door.

"What of it?"

"It doesn't fit the décor at all, and it's too long for that space anyway."

The doctor shrugged. He thought it looked nice... "So?"

"Pyrling had it placed there because he needed a place to sleep when he couldn't be bothered to go home. This man lived for his work. I have found no indication of any type of relationship with others that is not work-related. No friends, no family, no romantic interests."

"That's sad."

"They would have been a distraction, holding him back from his work."

"Sounds like he would have been your kind of chap." John grinned teasingly.

"Maybe." The consulting detective looked quietly at the man's notepad on the desk. "Once."

John tilted his head, studying his friend. His smile softened and warmed slightly.

Sherlock nodded "This wasn't a serial killer taking on a random victim, John. Pyrling had made himself very hard to reach, yet the killer picked him instead of easier targets. This murder is too personal, there is too much effort for it to be casual. It was calculated, deliberate and purposeful."

The consulting detective walked out into the waiting room and picked up the latest copy of "the Howler". He turned the pages and nodded "There." He held up the article, for John to see. It talked about the murder, and how the stock market was reacting to the news. "I think the killer was not just punishing Pyrling. I think he was making an example of him. I want to have a look at Pyrling's investments, his contacts and contracts…Everything."

John sighed. "It's going to be a long day, then."

.

* * *

.

She was gasping for air, a hand pushing just under her ribs to lessen the searing pain in her side, knowing she couldn't keep it up much longer.

Her bag was too heavy, filled with oranges, but she didn't have time to open her bag and lighten the load.

 _Ask for help?_ Her thoughts raced erratically through her mind at a speed she wished her feet had.

 _What if he has a gun? What if he shoots them?_

 _Hide._

 _Somewhere._

 _Anywhere_.

Without stopping, she reached for the outer pocket and pulled out her phone and with her thumb swiped. A brief glance confirmed she had activated the camera.

Molly turned a corner, her back pressed against the wall as she looked into the screen to see what was behind her.

Was he gone?

 _No._

She saw him jogging, fast approaching. He was looking around, carrying something.

Did he know Sherlock's address? Did he know she was staying there?

If she went to 221B, would she be leading this man to Sherlock?

Call him.

She closed her eyes briefly at that thought. As much as she wanted to, the man would hear her, wouldn't he?

Time.

She needed time.

He was coming closer.

Suddenly her eyes widened. She looked once more at the screen, then hurriedly put the phone in her pocket and pulled out the bag of oranges.

 _Steady, steady._

 _Patience._

She heard him approaching. First it was the rhythmic beating of his feet, then she could hear his breathing, not as laboured as hers was. She looked to the floor and saw his shadow…

Now!

With all the strength she had, gripping with both hands she swung the bag of oranges, striking him in the face. A groaned series of curses followed her as she darted away down the small street.

She hid behind a white van in a parking lot. It reeked of urine, but she could not hear him anymore.

Molly grasped her phone with trembling fingers. Each millisecond dragged on.

First ring.

 _Please_

Second ring.

 _Hurry._

"Yes."

"Sherlock…"

.

* * *

.

The two friends were looking over papers. Lestrade stood close by, shaking his head. "That's all gibberish to me." He muttered "But this is all we could find. We are working with the banks…They are reticent as usual." He growled.

"Let me guess…Customer's privacy." John gave him a commiserating smile.

Sherlock frowned slightly "He recently sold all his coffee plantations in Africa, Brazil and China…He bought a seaside resort in Apulia…He purchased land in Madagascar…A lot of it." His frown deepened, leaning back on the sofa.

His phone rang; he reached for it.

Molly.

"Yes."

"Sherlock."

He was on his feet and almost running to the door.

"What happened? Where are you?"

"Someone's chasing me. Sherlock, I don't know what to do. I'm near your house but…"

"I'm coming. Where are you?"  
"Broadstone. Behind a white van in a parking lot. Low battery."

"Stay there. I'm coming, Molly."

He gritted his teeth and ran.

.

* * *

.

Molly waited as quietly as she could. Each approaching footstep halted her breath until it faded away.

She was just being paranoid, surely? Molly shook her head. Better safe than sorry.

It wasn't long, but it felt like ages...

Someone was coming, running in her direction.

She froze.

The steps slowed down, but stayed purposeful in their approach.

"Molly."

She fought back the tears she could feel rising with her as she stood. Her legs were numb from staying crouched.

In a heartbeat he was in front of her, his eyes darting all over her before he nodded to himself.

She could hear him breathe again.

"Can you walk?"

Molly nodded.

"Let's get you home." Sherlock took her hand and walked quickly, just a step ahead of her, his eyes scouring the street.

"Tell me what you know."

"In Manchester I had seen a man with a green hoodie, a few times. Today I saw him again, and I thought he might be following me. I'm probably just being paranoid..." Molly added, sheepishly. Sherlock said nothing.

He opened the door and stepped in before her, letting go of her.

It was then that Molly realised he had been holding a pistol in his free hand. After a moment, he nodded and began to walk upstairs with her.

Once more, he entered first, and stepped into every room. Finally, he looked at her.

"Here." He walked close to her and took her hand. In it he placed the gun. "I'll be right back."

"Sherlock!" She held it gingerly, alarmed. He paused, one hand on the door, turning to look at her. Then he was gone.

Molly leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor, holding the weapon, unsure if she would ever be able to use it.

She became acutely aware of the cars driving by outside, the dripping tap, the dog barking a few blocks away.

Minutes or years later, she heard the door downstairs open. A scuffle, some banging...Footsteps coming up towards her.

"Come on." She sighed as she recognised Sherlock's voice.

The door opened and Sherlock entered, his face livid. He threw a man at her feet, who grunted weakly. Oranges rolled on the floor along with the contents of a shopping bag.

"Is this him?" The consulting detective growled. Molly looked at the green hoodie. The stranger looked up at her with big brown eyes and she nodded. "Yes..."

"You idiot." Sherlock snarled, picking the man up by the back of his collar and almost flinging him against the wall, pinning him there. "You scared her!"

"Mr Holmes." The man gasped.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried "Stop it!"

He let go and the man fell on his hands and knees on the ground.

"Molly." Sherlock said flatly, looking at the stranger. "This is Cody."

Cody looked up "Good afternoon, Doctor. I'm sorry for scaring you."

"What..." Molly looked at the two of them.

The consulting detective crossed his arms. "Cody is a veteran and martial artist. He had been charged with your safety, but he was not meant to be detected. Clearly his stealth is not what I thought it was."

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes." Cody stands up. "I didn't mean to put Doctor Hooper at risk."

"You..." Molly took a steadying breath. "How long has this been going on for?"

Cody rubbed the back of his neck "Since Mr Holmes returned from Italy, Doctor."

"You can call me Molly, Cody. Well, that's quite a while, I must say." Molly smiled. "Thank you for watching my back."

The fellow, in his mid-thirties with a boyish face, grinned. "My pleasure, Molly. I have brought your shopping, but the nightie's a bit ruined, I think I can..."

"thank you, Cody" Molly was smiling as she interrupted him "But right now I would like to speak to Mr Holmes, alone, please. I believe I am quite safe here, I'll be sure to let you know if your assistance is needed."

"Unless I find a better replacement." Sherlock added coldly.

Cody, clearly relieved to be out of the woods, at least for now, nodded "Very well, Molly. Mr Holmes has my number if you need me."

"I don't doubt it." She kept smiling. "Bye."

The door closed behind him.

Molly didn't move.

"He shouldn't have frightened you, Molly." Sherlock kneeled to pick up the oranges. "I thought he was stealthier than that. Don't worry, I'll find someone who..."

"Just what the HELL do you think you're doing?" Molly said, her hands curled into fists by her sides.

Sherlock blinked.

"Molly, I..."

"You sent someone to SPY on me?" She cried as he stood.

His jaw set. "Not to spy, to protect you, to..."

"To tell you what I was doing, where I was, who I was seeing..." Molly paced the room. "That's how you knew when I was home late or early, isn't it? You weren't just using your deductive skills, you had a spy..."

"A bodyguard. Molly, that's not why I hired him, I wasn't...I was trying to protect you." He replied, standing very still. He added, frowning "Some people would think it romantic for their boyfriend to..."

"Romantic? ROMANTIC? That's not romantic, Sherlock. It's creepy! It's...it's what STALKERS do!" She waved her hands in frustration. "It's not healthy, Sherlock."

He took a step back as if she had slapped him.

She walked to the window, to the door, anywhere. Anger and adrenaline made it hard to stop moving.

"I hit him with a bag of oranges. In the face. What if I had struck him with a bottle? God, Sherlock, what if I had shot him with that pistol?"

"I wasn't sure it was him you saw, Molly. I wanted you to be safe."

"This is not the right way to go about it, Sherlock." She cried. "You TALK to me, you don't hire a stalker to..."  
"He's not a stalker." Sherlock's jaw clenched and he stepped forward, angrily. "Molly, have you forgotten who you are talking to? The life I live? I was only trying to look out for you, protect you..."

"You didn't talk to me about it! You just decided everything all by yourself. I'm not a child, Sherlock, not a porcelain doll nor a bloody damsel in distress to be put in a gl..." Molly began to shout

"That's not what I'm saying." His voice raised in response. He ran his hand through his black curls, his eyes closing as if in pain as he calmed himself down. "Molly, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to worry, or be scared..."

"Well that didn't work out how you planned now, did it?" She replied, bluntly.

Molly was still panting slightly, but had stopped pacing.

"You should have just talked to me, Sherlock. Why hide this?" She asked, her anger almost spent.

The consulting detective put his hands in his pockets. "I thought the idea of a bodyguard might make you feel uncomfortable, so keeping him hidden seemed like the best option..."

"Sherlock. That's not good. I don't even need a bodyguard in the first place" She scoffed "I'm only a pathologist..."

He looked quietly at her. "A pathologist who is close to Sherlock Holmes. You need a bodyguard."

"I'm not the only one close to you." Molly shook her head "Do you have henchmen surveilling everyone? Mrs Hudson? John?"

Sherlock did not reply.

"I didn't think so." She stated quietly.

There was silence between them.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

Molly looked up at him.

"I should have informed you of my decision to hire Cody." He stopped. "I should have heard your opinion, involved you in the making the right choice." He corrected himself quietly.

"Yes." she nodded "You should have."

Suddenly she just felt oh so very, very tired.

"I know you'll always have secrets, Sherlock." She said. "But you need to talk to me. We promised to never lie to each other; this might not have been technically a lie, but..." She tried to smile "And you see, keeping things hidden from me tends to backfire."

Sherlock nodded silently. "Yes."

With a sigh, Molly kneeled and began to pick up the rest of the shopping. The fruit was probably terribly bruised, but if she made a pie it wouldn't...

"Molly."

There was something in the quiet way he called her name that made her stomach flip. She looked up at him.

Without a word, he offered his hand. She took it and stood.

"I need to show you something." he said softly, leading her to his bedroom.

She stepped inside. The curtains were only half-closed, the last rays of the ending day mingling with the street lights, painting the room with an otherworldly hue.

Sherlock let go of her hand and walked to the bedside table. He opened a drawer and pulled out a worn envelope.

"The taxi driver, the one that jumped under the plane...He gave me this." Sherlock offered it to her.

Cautiously she stepped forward and took the envelope from his hands.

Inside there was a picture.

It took her a moment to recognise the building of her old London apartment, photographed in the night from the other side of the street from a high spot.

"It's my house. I don't..."

"Look at the back."

On the back was written a date. Molly recognised it as being one year after Sherlock had feigned his own death.

She turned her eyes to Sherlock, but he was standing away from the light, his face cast in shadow.

"Look in the corner." He said quietly, coaxingly. "Look carefully."

Molly noticed a hunched figure, walking stick in hand, standing outside with a cap on his head.

She frowned, confused. "An old man."

"Me."

Molly blinked.

"What..."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Sometimes, while I was in hiding, I had to return to London to carry out the takedown of Moriarty's infrastructure. I was always fast, swift to leave without a trace. I made one mistake." he hesitated. "You."

She looked at the picture again. "You came to see me."

He smiled slightly "You offered to help me cross the street."

"I can't remember."

"That's because I'm good at what I do." he said mirthlessly.

"I knew you were alive; you could have said something..." She murmured.

He shook his head "You were dating; you seemed happy. I've ruined that for you enough times already."

She held the picture carefully, staring at that figure looking up at the windows above.

"Molly, the people who took this picture knew I was alive. I don't know how, but they did. And they know I returned to find you." His jaw clenched. "That's what this photo means, that's why it was given to me."

He hesitated. "That's why I hired Cody."

Sherlock sighed. "I know; I should have told you. It's true, I didn't want to scare you or worry you, but..." Sherlock sat down on the floor, leaning against the bed. "But that isn't all, Molly. I was being selfish." His head lowered, his right arm resting on a bent knee.

"I was worried you would be hurt but, selfishly...I didn't want you to...I... I was afraid."

Shakily, she sat down on the floor to his left, understanding.

"You were afraid I would be scared away and leave? Or worse, that I would be used against you?"

He nodded. "And I ended up making it worse."

Molly sighed. "Well, I knew what I was getting into, Sherlock." She looked at the picture. "This is good."

"What?" He frowned.

"You're talking to me. You're telling me what is on your mind, what worries you. That's a good thing because that way I can understand you... I can help you." Molly smiled, looking at him. "We can help each other."

Sherlock looked at her quietly, almost puzzled as he studied her. "Aren't you angry? Or scared?" Was she truly so much braver than he thought he could be?

Molly nodded. "I am a little, of course...But that's life." She pondered "At least, that is life right now. And you seem to be learning." She smiled, trying to assuage the unease she was feeling. "Yes, Sherlock, I am scared." her eyes fell on the picture again. "But I'm not going anywhere. We're a team, after all, aren't we?"

He nodded, a small smile forming on his lips as he looked at the wall in front of them. "A team."

Sherlock moved his arm to wrap it around her, and she moved in closer.

"Did you really hit him in the face with some oranges?"

"Yes."

"That's my girl."

Molly sighed, and she felt his body relax beside her. For a while, it felt like all was still.

Like the sacred calm that covers the world when it first begins to snow, the two stayed silently sitting, leaning against the bed, Molly resting her head on his shoulder.

Then, gently, she felt his hand on her cheek, holding it delicately, turning her to him.

Her lips rose to meet his... Warm, soft and welcoming, but with a promise like the ebbing of the rising tide...

All too soon, it was over as he stood, clearing his throat.

"It has dawned on me." He said, straightening his shirt "That I have never taken you on a proper date."

Molly looked up, somewhat dazedly, at him. "It doesn't matter..."

"It does." He said firmly. "It does. It isn't...Proper." he cleared his throat again. "Molly Hooper, would you go out with me, say, tomorrow evening for dinner?" He asked stiffly.

Molly smiled. "I would like that, Sherlock Holmes."

"Good. Good." He nodded. The consulting detective offered his hand and Molly accepted it to stand.

The two walked into the kitchen and sat down for a simple meal. They talked about the case, about Doctor Paten's books, and about the weather...But for the rest of the evening there hovered over them that brief moment of peace, when time had stood still.

.

* * *

.

Thanks to: SaraBahama, for the undeserved support she gave me, and to MiaAlwaysteetime, mrspencil, kal71, Ciliegiacara, Pyupyu, Cath Meow, mrscookiiie, Tboy1971 and Jess Chen for the kind reviews!

The piece of personal news: I'm engaged :)


	8. Gah

After dinner, Molly helped clean the dishes; then she went to the bathroom and washed her teeth.

When she walked back into the living room, she found Sherlock sitting on the couch, studying the copies of contracts and deals of Mr. Pyrling had been involved with over the past few years.

"Did you find anything interesting?" Molly asked. "Do you need help?" she added.

"Most of It concerns investments in real estate and agriculture, with an uncharacteristic investment in bioresearch and in a newspaper..." Sherlock didn't look at her. "You are tired. Go to bed."

"Ok." Molly hesitated. She was still wearing her day clothes, as was he. Was he planning on sleeping at all?

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly." He replied, his eyes still focusing on the papers.

Sherlock was aware of her soft, light footsteps going up the stairs. He heard the boards in the bedroom creak slightly as she walked around the room. There followed silence, though he could almost feel the fabric falling to the floor.

Finally, the boards complained again as she entered the bed.

Sherlock had finished reading the document.

He blinked.

Then he read it again.

And again.

With a slight grunt he almost slammed the paper onto the "to read" pile and he stood up.

The consulting detective picked up his violin. Paganini, Caprice no. 5...

No.

He began to play. Debussy, Beau Soir.

As the final notes ended, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling.

The night was quiet, unnervingly so.

She had not returned his shirt.

Sherlock looked at the papers, piled up on the table. He took one, began to look at it and discarded it at once with a huff, standing up and walking to his bedroom. He got changed, throwing his shirt to one side of the room.

The consulting detective fell heavily onto the bed.

He lay on his back. Then he turned to one side, and then to the other, and finally on his back again.

Sherlock pulled the blanket up to cover his shoulders, then kicked it all the way down to the feet of the bed.

He stared at the ceiling.

All was quiet.

Silent.

It was his shirt, after all.

Maybe he could go and get it.

Finally, he flung a pillow away and sat up.

He listened.

Nothing.

The consulting detective got up.

He walked barefoot into the living room, while donning his blue dressing gown, and sat down on the sofa. With a muted sigh he picked up a list of Professor Goodfellow's recent activities. He frowned and got a pencil.

It was going to be a long night.

.

* * *

.

Molly stretched and turned into the comforting warmth of the sheets, the morning light filtering through the curtains.

She traced her bottom lip with her fingers, remembering, then hugged her pillow before getting up.

"Sherlock?" She walked down the steps and into the living room, but there was no sign of him. Tentatively she approached his bedroom door, hesitated, then knocked lightly. There was no reply, so she pushed the door open to check. The bed was undone, and a pillow was in a far corner. No Sherlock, though.

Molly went into the bathroom.

The nightie had been dirtied, so she had worn the blue shirt again. Somewhat reluctantly, she unbuttoned it promising herself to wash the nightie and wear that instead. Maybe.

With a sigh, she stepped into the shower. The water was hot and made her cheeks flush, although the pink hue was not caused by heat alone, as her mind wandered.

"It was just a kiss. No big deal." She chastised herself, vigorously rubbing the shampoo into her scalp, suppressing a small squeal. "You're not a teenager. Grow up." Molly huffed.

A few minutes later she stepped out of the shower, the steam fogging up the mirror as she looked at her unfocused reflection. Molly loosely patted away the extra moisture in her hair with a towel, but decided to let it air dry. She would tie it up in a ponytail later, anyway.

The pathologist wrapped herself in the larger of the two blue towels, picked up Sherlock's shirt and walked barefoot out of the bathroom.

"Good morning."

"Gah!" Molly cried, spinning around.

Sherlock was standing at the door, a small brown paper bag in one hand.

He blinked.

"Breakfast." He said flatly, holding up the paper bag.

He cleared his throat and walked past her to the kitchen. "I have found a connection between the two victims, so I am going to go and look into that today with John. It seems Professor Goodfellow had bought tickets to watch a seminar held by Doctor Lynch, a psychiatrist, and Mr. Pyrling owned a book written by him. I am not yet sure how this connects to Edie Potts, but I have arranged to meet Doctor Lynch today, at the end of one of his seminars..."

Molly stood quite still, then slowly turned around, holding the towel firmly. She moved towards the kitchen and saw Sherlock putting the kettle on and pulling out a croissant from the brown bag to put it on a plate. She already knew it would be filled with apricot jam.

"Thank you...Aren't you joining me?" She asked, quietly.

Sherlock didn't look at her. "I already ate." He replied walking out of the kitchen and through the living room. Molly heard the apartment door close behind him.

"Have a good day." She murmured.

.

* * *

.

"Charlie."

"Sherlock Holmes, what a pleasure to hear you." The slow, deliberate drawl answered. "I haven't seen you at Candlelight Club in a while."

"I want to book a table. A private one, just for two. Close to the dance floor. Tonight."

There was a slight pause. "Adjustments will have to be made, but...For an old friend, I think I can get it done."

"Thanks, Charlie."

"I'll send you the secret location via text as soo.."  
"No need. I already know where it will be."

"Of course you do."

.

* * *

.

While the kettle bought the water to boil, Molly got dressed. She sat down and had her tea with the croissant, and called Alice to make sure that Toby was doing well. Molly missed him. After dodging a bit of guided questioning from Alice, and confirming the feline's good health, the pathologist hung up, washed the plates and prepared to leave the house.

Her phone beeped. A text.

 _Downstairs at 6:30? Dinner and dancing._

 _S._

Molly smiled.

 _It's a date!_ She began to type, then deleted. She bit her lip, wrote different text and pressed "send".

 _Ok._

 _M._

Bart's welcomed her cheerfully, beautifully lit by the springtime morning light. Everything in London seemed particularly quaint and charming, so it was with a beaming smile that she stepped into Dr. Paten's office and resumed her audit of the books.

She had completed the bookshelf, and had already scheduled for some people to retrieve a pile for the library, when Judy poked her head in through. "Hey, Molly. We're heading out for lunch. Fancy coming along?"

As they went to join the others, Molly and Judy talked about Sherlock. The new pathologist at Bart's seemed to have found a cautious armistice with him, although she still occasionally lost her patience...How Molly resisted so long, she'll never know!

There was something so familiar, yet so different in sitting down for a meal with the old gang. Once Molly lived such moments with apprehension, afraid of saying something out of place, something stupid...Sometimes of saying anything at all. Now, she listened to the others but spoke her mind comfortably, even daring to make a joke!

As she stepped back into Paten's office, she felt a slight tug at her heart.

Once she had finished with these books, she would have to go away again.

Molly did the right thing, leaving Bart's. She knew that much! Manchester had changed her; it had made her grow.

But she did feel a little homesick.

 _._

* * *

.

"Is everything ok, Sherlock? You look tired." John tilted his head at his friend while they rode in a taxi to West Norwood.

"I'm fine." The consulting detective checked his phone.

The doctor looked at Sherlock quietly, then shrugged and turned his eyes ahead. "A half-day seminar on phobias. This might actually be interesting."

"I doubt it. By the looks of the book Pyrling had, we can expect a lot of feel-good, positive and useless affirmations, some actual research mixed with pseudoscience and a plethora of empty buzzwords."

John leaned back into the car seat. "So why see the whole seminar? Why not meet him directly at the end of it this afternoon?"

"He is the only element connecting our victims, and look..." The consulting detective pointed at a copy of an article. "This man died a few months ago, from a heart attack in a lift. He's a possible other victim."

John frowned, reading. " _The man, who suffered from claustrophobia, was transported while under general anesthesia. The lift jammed and the man regained full consciousness before it could be fixed. A jolt during the reparations seems to be the cause of his heart attack. By the time the lift was fully operational, the man had died._ " The doctor shook his head "Poor fellow. What makes you think it wasn't just bad luck?"

The consulting detective took back the paper. "He was a bioengineer, apparently unemployed." Something in his tone alerted his friend.

"Apparently?"

"Look at his clothes. All brand new, all very good quality. I don't think he was living off of jobseeker's allowance." Sherlock nodded. "Now we can ask his family. This is his house."

The car had just turned right into Robson road. To the left, a semi-detached, red brick house mirrored red iron fence marking the boundaries of the local cemetery on the opposite side of the street. The tall green trees within the grounds brightened the otherwise unremarkable area. Sherlock emerged from the taxi with a somber air of contrite mourning, walked to the door and rang the bell.

"Yes?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Tooley, I am terribly sorry to bother you, but I have only recently heard about poor Angus."

The woman, a rather portly lady in her sixties, was wearing a beige cotton dress of questionable taste. She was wearing wooden beads...Buddhist praying beads. The air smelled of incense, fairy cakes and cheap cherry lip gloss, which she wasn't wearing.

Her eyes filled with tears instantly at the young man's clear grief. "You knew Angus?"

Sherlock nodded. "We met at Uni and stayed in touch, but I have been in Nepal for the past year, teaching English to Buddhist Monks, so we lost contact. It is only when I tried to catch up with old friends on my return that I heard of the terrible news."

She nodded, looking down. "It was a shock to us all. Poor Angus."

His eyes darted past her and into the hall. Good, family pictures. Shoes along the wall under a bench, one pair of boots too small a size.

"How is his sister? Is she coping?" He tilted his head comfortingly.

"Oh, Hetty is coping. We all are. Please, come in for a cuppa. It's not often I get to meet friends of Angus; he was such a private lad. You can tell me a little about his life away from home."

they stepped inside for some tea. John gave supportive comments and spouted the usual pleasantries that were so irksome to the consulting detective, allowing him the time to focus on what was important. Sherlock took as much information as he could from the bereaved mother and the house, although most of it was completely unintentional on her part. He paid her in kind, using all the clues the situation gave him to talk about her son. It was all illusion, deductions from a stranger, but she did not know and drank it all in hungrily. What a comforting thought, she said, to know that there were people who knew Angus so well and who remembered him lovingly.

After the chat, she opened the door for them to leave, inviting them to come by whenever they liked.

For a moment he opened his mouth to tell her that her son had been murdered.

She hugged him. "Thanks for popping by."

He could tell her later.

When the case was solved.

The two friends stopped to discuss the case with Lestrade, and after that John decided he wanted lunch.

"Hey" The soldier said, biting into a vegetarian Cornish pasty, "The seminar ends at, what, 5:30? I was thinking, after that we could go..."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't go with you to see the performance, John. I'm busy."

"All right, that's it." His friend frowned. "For the past few days you've been acting really strange, and I know you're hiding something. look, Sherlock, if you're even just _thinking_ about going to a den, I swear I'll..."

"Molly's in London."

John blinked.

"What?"

"Molly's in London. For a couple of days."  
"Well why didn't you say anything? That's great news! Is she staying in her old apartment?"

The consulting detective shook his head. "She lost the lease on that."

"Oh, what a shame. Where's she staying?"

"My place. Your room." Sherlock muttered before biting into his pasty.

"Oh. I see."

"For pity's sake, John, will you stop grinning!"

"Yeah. Sorry. So, how long is she staying?"

"A couple of nights. In your room, John."

"Mmh."

"Come on, let's go."

"Ok...You dog."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Shut up, John."

"I didn't say anything."

Eventually the two friends made their way to Gracepoint, the location of Dr. Lynch's seminar, which was due to start.

"Find your Freedom from Phobias" was written in giant letters over the entrance to the venue. Sherlock took a deep breath. John patted him on the back, and they walked inside.

.

* * *

.

A/N

Initially I thought of having a much longer chapter with the plot moving on more, but as I was looking at it the whole thing just seemed far too long. For some reason I prefer shorter chapters, hence this is the first half of the original. Perhaps it is because I like to read fics on my phone on the way to work? Who knows!

I realise I never take the time to thank one of my greatest allies for writing these fics: Google, and particularly Google maps.

The Candlelight Club is real; when they have an event the location is secret and only sent to people with the tickets.

My warmest thanks to: likingthistoomuch, mrscookiiie, a gueat, 2oldforthis, Rocking the Redhead and SammyKatz for their kind reviews and well wishes.


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